


PWP Means Porn With Perspicacity, Or: The Unfurling Scrolls of Fate

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Case Fic, Crack, F/F, Fic within a Fic, M/M, Meta, Romance, Silly, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock writes porn for a purpose. John does, too (for different reasons).  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PWP Means Porn With Perspicacity, Or: The Unfurling Scrolls of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction about fictional characters writing works of fiction about other fictional characters (and themselves) disguised as fictional characters. All usernames have been invented, and due to the extremely meta quality of this work, these have absolutely no connection to any real-life people, living or dead. I must also add that this is greatly a self-aware pastiche of my own writing style; if you've read any of my smut before, you'll see what I mean.
> 
> Written for the prompt: 'Sherlock joins an original character femslash site to investigate another writer (he needs to infiltrate a meet-up) - but of course he has to come up with his own story to be believable. Knowing few women, he cranks out a threeway fic using badly disguised Sally Donavan, Harry Watson, and his brother's minion Anthea. Plus points for a Mrs Hudson cameo! I'd love to see the clash between Sherlock's own style and his attempts to create what he THINKS is a successful femslash story. Even more points (maple bacon flavoured points!) if Harry's a fan of the site and catches on.'

_Her dark, tightly-curling hair laid out asymmetrically against her perspiration-dappled brow, Serenity sighed as Hyacinth stroked one long, tanned hand across Serenity’s darker-hued breast, all the while kissing Andrea thoroughly, as if the depths of her soul could be read from the surface of her lover’s tongue._

 _‘More,’ Serenity pleaded, though with little urgency, for she cherished these moments when her two goddesses entwined above her, lost in the—_

‘Sherlock?’

He looked up from his computer, glaring. ‘I’m busy.’

‘I was just wondering if you wanted some tea,’ said John.

‘Fine.’

 _...lost in the_

 _...lost in the_

When John returned with the tea, Sherlock had gone to his room.

  
Lestrade never said hello when he phoned. ‘Any leads?’

‘Well, they’re lesbians. That’s pretty much all we know.’

Lestrade noised frustratedly on the other end of the line. ‘Fantastic. Does Sherlock have anything to say on the subject?’

John looked across at Sherlock, who was curled up on the sofa, his netbook balanced on his knees, frowning as he typed, his tongue poking out. ‘He’s, er, tapping some online resources.’

‘Well, tap the hell out of them,’ said Lestrade, ‘we need to solve this.’

‘I’ll pass the message on,’ said John, even as Sherlock slammed his computer shut and left the room.

  
 _Andrea stared out of the window of the sleek black towncar, sighing hard. Her boss, Mikhael, was such a prick, always sending her to kidnap his brilliant brother’s somewhat-less-than-brilliant flatmate. Couldn’t he just phone the man, for the love of God? Honestly._

 _She let her mind wander as they sat in the traffic standstill, thinking of her lovers, her beautiful angels—the way Serenity could curl her fingers just so, making Andrea arch and beg and scream; the way Hyacinth would overwhelm her with ravenous, ravishing kisses as Andrea ran her fingers through those short, spiked blonde locks—_

‘How’s the research coming?’ John asked.

Sherlock looked fit to tear out his throat. ‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m writing, John! This is imperative to the case!’

John made a face, chuckling. Next Sherlock was going to be shouting  _I can’t work under these conditions!_  and slamming his door. (He had the previous night, after all.) ‘Sorry.’

But Sherlock was eyeing him consideringly, frowning. ‘This may be unwise, but...’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘Will you beta my chapter? It feels clunky.’

John went and sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, and over the next two hours he scrolled through the single-spaced Word document, pointing things out to him:

‘I don’t know if “honeyed curtains” is a good descriptor here.’

‘You’ve used “the dark-haired love-queen” to refer to both Serenity and Andrea in the same paragraph, it’s confusing.’

‘Maybe you could work on the section about Hyacinth’s relationship with her brother? It feels false, somehow.’

‘You use far too many semi-colons. Compound-complex sentences are great, but they shouldn’t be  _every_  sentence.’

‘Every orgasm can’t gush, especially the tenth one in a row. She’d get dehydrated.’

‘So what’s with the hyphenating words? “Seeing-feeling-touching-needing-wanting”  could be better portrayed with a short, poignant phrase.’

‘Andrea’s breasts were described as being large in the first seventeen pages, and now they’re “small and pert like apricots”... which is it, then? Did she pop off and put on different ones while Hyacinth was getting the dildo?’

‘Repetition of lines can be good, but it can also feel a little  _too_  repetitive, you know? I get that you’re doing a throw-back to the first fic, but you don’t need to mention Andrea’s trust issues every few pages; the reader will remember if they’ve gotten this far.’

It was at that point that Sherlock interrupted him. ‘What do you mean,  _if_  they’ve gotten this far?’

John looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Well, it’s just... this is really long, Sherlock.’

‘It’s only the twenty-seventh chapter!’

‘Yes,’ John conceded, ‘in a series that already has three prior fics, all of which are well over twenty-thousand words.’

Sherlock glared at him. ‘I have hundreds of comments on every chapter, begging for more, John.  _Hundreds._ ’

John stared back. ‘How do you find the time to write this much? It’s only been a week since the case started. Do you not sleep anymore?’

‘Sleep is for the weak!’ Sherlock announced with a passionate gesture. ‘I must cater to my muse!’

John looked hard at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

‘What?’ Sherlock demanded. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘You’re hilarious, is all. You have gotten way, way too invested in this.’

Sherlock jerked his computer out of John’s lap, holding it to his chest like a beloved child. ‘Don’t criticise my prolific nature, John, you’re just a lowly beta. Betas are inferior to writers.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said John, still laughing. ‘Maybe I’ll write some fic of your fic, then, and we’ll see who’s inferior!’

Sherlock peered at him with sharply narrowed eyes. ‘You’re on!’

  
 _Laid out in one long, curved line across the settee, Hyacinth arched._

 _‘Yes,’ she said, urging her newest lover on. ‘Don’t stop.’_

 _‘Relax, darling,’ said Mrs Harrison, gently kissing her brow. ‘We have all night.’_

‘This,’ said Sherlock, his tone torn between appraisal and envy, ‘is surprisingly good.’

John smiled, abashed. ‘Thank you. Not such a lowly beta now, am I?’

Sherlock scrolled up the page again, lightly tapping the screen. ‘This here,’ he said, ‘”the firelight in her eyes reflected like a window into her desire”, that’s  _excellent.’_

‘Thanks.’

They sat in silence, both reading back over the end of the ficlet from the middle where Sherlock had left the cursor, their shoulders touching as John leaned over to see.

‘Would you,’ said Sherlock, sounding a little nervous, ‘consent to co-write the sequel to  _Drenched Irises_  with me?’

John beamed. ‘I’d be happy to.’

‘I mean, I love that you brought in the character of Mrs Harrison as more than a background thing. It just... it rounds it out so nicely.’

‘I thought so, myself.’

‘And that scene where Serenity’s watching Sherwood and Jonathan as they leave the crime scene,’ Sherlock scrolled back to it, reading out, ‘”there was a frisson between them as their hands brushed, and Serenity wondered what had been there, and what could be”, that’s phenomenally spot-on for her character. She’s constantly musing about the nature of their relationship, because she’s confused about her own and projects her feelings onto others.’

‘Do you think we should develop that idea further? I mean, the Sherwood/Jonathan line of thought?’

Sherlock looked excited. ‘Male/male slash isn’t allowed on the archive, but I’ve been cross-posting to A03.’

‘Great—I have an idea for an opening scene that ties the Mikhael-and-Sherwood rivalry storyline to the rest of the plot.’

  
 _Comments on “Desire by Moonlight (part 5 in the Unfurling Scrolls of Fate series)” by sh_be_silent and jumper_j:_

 _Comment from: Alice_not_allison  
This is beautiful. I love what you’re doing with the series! Also, HI NEW CO-AUTHOR, YOU’RE MAD BRILLIANT! <3_

 _Comment from: zzz23zzz  
*shlicks* This is sooooooooo hot. Damn. I mean, DAMN. I’ll be in my bunk._

 _Comment from: Terriface  
Hnnnnnnngh. I love you so much right now._

 _Comment from: butchestever  
Marry me? BOTH OF YOU. WE SHALL HAVE A THREESOME LIKE SERENITY/ANDREA/HYACINTH AND IT SHALL BE LOVELY. Either of you know an acceptable Mrs Harrison substitute? Because merciful fuck, she’s such a smokin’ hot cougar. *shivers*_

 _Comment from: fox_mcsocks  
My girlfriend and I set aside our whole evening to read your updates when they’re posted. This fic has changed our love life forever, LOL it’s all your fault that we have good sex now. You should be proud!_

 _Comment from: lipsticklizzie  
YOU ARE ON FIRE THIS WEEK! OMG so glad you’re continuing this series, and so quickly! Jumper_j, do you write on your own, or just with sh? I’d love to see what your independent work is like._

‘So you see,’ Sherlock muttered as John scrolled through the pages and pages of reviews. ‘You see the allure of doing this.’

John laughed, a little disbelieving of all the positive feedback. ‘I can’t believe how popular we are.’

‘How popular  _I_  am,’ Sherlock corrected him. ‘You’re just riding my coat-tails.’

‘Not according to lipsticklizzie,’ said John, scrolling quickly, ‘and georgiapie, and whistleforme, and harried114—’

‘They simply don’t want me getting offended for your sake,’ said Sherlock loftily, but he was smiling.

  
‘Any leads?’

John rubbed his forehead, sighing into the phone. ‘The meet-up thing’s on Friday, we’re both going. The suspect’s already confirmed her attendance.’

‘Let me know when you get details,’ said Lestrade. ‘Stay in contact. You two have been surprisingly quiet this week.’

‘Been busy,’ said John, already typing again with his free hand. ‘Been  _really_  busy with the case.’

  
They played something they called Pass The Keyboard; one would open a Word document on their computer, type a paragraph or snatch of dialogue, then pass it to the other, and so on.

 _Sherwood was all long, pale limbs and a crooked smile, his curls a dark nimbus around his handsome face, and Jonathan couldn’t stand it any longer. They had worked together for over a year, lived together, had grown accustomed to the other’s habits and manner (or, in Sherwood’s case, lack of manners). Jonathan had risked his life on countless occasions, throwing himself (often literally) into the line of fire for his friend, and now he was laying himself bare, heart wide open, for Sherwood to decide whether it was worthy of his fleeting attention or not._

John handed the computer over; Sherlock read the passage, smiling. ‘I love your alliteration in the last sentence.’ And he started typing.

 _Sherwood, for his part, was feeling similarly vulnerable, having brought Jonathan into his until-then-unoccupied sphere of trust. Sherwood had shown him, through allowing Jonathan to compliment and criticise his work, that he was wanted, that his opinion mattered; oh, how he was wanted! Sherwood stared across at him from the sofa, hands itching to touch him, lips longing to kiss._

‘Your alliteration’s good in the last bit, too,’ said John when he had read Sherlock’s part of the exchange. ‘It’s starting to create a sort of poetic feel to the section. But remember, you can only take these stylistic things so far—too much, and it ruins the atmosphere.’

‘Duly noted,’ said Sherlock as John replied to the paragraph.

 _Jonathan stared back, the silence between them deafening. He longed, as well, but it seemed too sudden a thing to say, too heavy a secret burden to, at last, relieve. Jonathan had grown comfortable with his yearning, his pain, and it seemed foolish to risk what they had for something that, for all he knew, they couldn’t. But the desire had become too much for him to bear; he had to speak. He **had** to._

 _‘Sherwood,’ he said, at last breaking their shared gaze to look at his hands, nervous. ‘Sherwood, I need to tell you something.’_

 _Sherwood ran a hand through his dark curls, a little nervous, himself. ‘Yes, Jonathan?’_

They passed the computer; it was Sherlock’s turn.

 _‘I...’ Jonathan hesitated, wondering if he was being stupid, wondering if Sherwood would point that out, ‘I’m in love with you.’_

 _‘I see,’ Sherwood hummed, steepling his fingers. ‘How long?’_

 _‘Ages,’ Jonathan replied breathlessly, his brow creased with care. ‘Practically as long as I can remember, and it’s driving me mad.’_

 _Sherwood nodded, swallowing hard. ‘I feel the same.’_

John’s turn again, and as he read Sherlock’s passage he was almost trembling with excitement. He replied:

 _And they were close at once, hands tangling in each other’s hair, kissing like their lives were at stake—which they were, the life they had shared up until that moment, the anxiety and repression crumbling away, and up from its cracked foundations rose a gleaming tower of desire._

Sherlock stared at the blinking cursor for a long time.

‘What?’ said John, fretting with his fingers. ‘Is it terrible? Was the metaphor too much?’

‘No,’ said Sherlock guardedly, ‘it’s good.’

‘Have you got a block?’ John asked. ‘I can continue if you want, if you think it’d help give you ideas.’

‘No,’ Sherlock replied, ‘it’s fine as it is.’ But he set the computer aside, looking at John, holding his breath for a long moment before exhaling with a sigh. ‘I think I just need a break.’

‘Oh,’ said John, trying not to sound disappointed; trying, but failing.

  
They had adhesive name-badges on their chests, their usernames written in hot pink marker. Everyone had them; this was not why they had been given odd looks when they sat down with the group.

‘That one,’ Sherlock murmured into John’s ear, pointing to someone up at the counter ordering a coffee, ‘ferocious1, that’s our man.’

‘Woman,’ John corrected.

‘”That’s our woman” sounds odd, John.’

‘I’ve read some of her fic,’ said John. ‘She’s got an excellent...’ he hesitated, ‘grasp of anatomy. Writes a lot of gore, werewolf AUs and things.’

‘That’s precisely what clued me in. I swear, John, sometimes we share a brain.’

‘Sorry I’m late!’ said a blonde-and-short-haired woman from the doorway of the cafe, picking up one of the pre-marked name-badges and sticking it to her ample chest.  _harried114._  ‘Hi, John, what are you doing here?’ She peered at his badge, a look of dawning comprehension breaking over her face. ‘Oh my  _fucking_  God.’

‘Whatever you do,’ said John, leaning to whisper in her ear, ‘don’t say Sherlock’s name. We’re undercover.’

Harry snorted, looking around at the rest of the group. ‘You’re the only men in a room full of fandom lesbians, you stick out a mile.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘Should we have come in drag? We work with what we’re given.’

‘If either of you,’ Harry warned, ‘pops a boner during my dramatic reading of lipsticklizzie’s  _A Revised Ode to Sappho_ , I will kill the both of you.’

‘Yeah, well, killing is why we’re here.’

Harry eyed him sternly. ‘Is this about the Cecily Richardson murder that was in the paper?’

John nodded.

‘Wait it out,’ said Harry, looking sly. ‘I have a plan. You’ve got your gun, of course?’

‘Of course.’

‘Stand back and watch the master work.’

Soon, they went round the circle introducing themselves, saying their usernames and favourite authors.

‘I’m sh_be_silent,’ said Sherlock, ‘and my favourite author is jumper_j.’

John blinked at him, astounded, smiling. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘That’s... really nice of you to say.’

‘So, are you two dating?’ asked Harry, smirking. John glared briefly at her before hitching on a smile for everyone else’s benefit. ‘Because you two look  _just like_  Sherwood and Jonathan,’ she turned to the rest of the assembled, ‘don’t they?’

Her question was greeted by encouraging nods.

‘Are they based on you?’ asked Terriface, fiddling with her long ginger braid as she spoke, sighing dreamily. ‘And your all-consuming love that knows no mortal bounds?’

Sherlock and John looked awkwardly at each other for a moment, hedging, making faces.

‘It will be revealed in the next sequel,’ Sherlock announced, to widespread squeals and giggles of delight.

Two hours later, when the meeting was wrapping up, John gestured at Harry with his eyebrows, as if to say,  _If you’ve got a plan, time to uncork that motherfucker, because we’re running out of time._

Harry’s plan consisted of luring ferocious1 into the little side-street beside the cafe once the meeting had adjourned, dropping a few well-worded compliments about her, ahem, grasp of anatomy, and then snogging her senseless. While Harry had her pinned, John and Sherlock came round the corner, having phoned Lestrade to send backup. Harry only pulled back from the kiss when she heard the click of John’s gun being cocked near their faces.

‘Got a bit too ferocious with Cecily Richardson, didn’t we?’ said John. ‘Kindly step away from my sister.’

‘Please tell me you’re going to write this into  _The Unfurling Scrolls of Fate_ ,’ said ferocious1. ‘I would love you forever.’

‘Ask the man in charge,’ said John, nodding to Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed. ‘Not even worth a footnote. Oh, look,’ he waved to a haircut-and-uniform at the end of the alley, ‘your carriage awaits.’

  
John swallowed around the lump in his throat, settling into his armchair. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I suppose we can, er, go back to how things were, then.’

‘What?’ Sherlock looked annoyed, and a little hurt. ‘But we haven’t finished  _Desire by Moonlight_  yet! We have ten more chapters plotted out and ready to be written!’

‘But it was for the case,’ John said helplessly, begging with his eyes to not be allowed to let the matter rest.

Sherlock opened his computer. ‘Fuck the case, I wasn’t bored.’

He read back over John’s last paragraph, then stared at the blinking cursor for a long time.

 _And they were close at once, hands tangling in each other’s hair, kissing like their lives were at stake—which they were, the life they had shared up until that moment, the anxiety and repression crumbling away, and up from its cracked foundations rose a gleaming tower of desire._

‘John,’ he said. ‘John, I need to tell you something.’

John ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah, Sherlock?’

‘I...’ Sherlock hesitated, wondering if he was being stupid, wondering if John would point that out, ‘I’m in love with you.’

‘Oh,’ said John.

Sherlock glared exasperatedly at him. ‘I’m trying to be romantic, John! Aren’t you going to quote the rest of it?’

‘No,’ said John, getting to his feet. ‘I’m going to kiss you, now, actually.’

And the sequel wrote itself.


End file.
